


Breathless

by Bliss_Smith



Series: Elements of Love/On the Road to Always [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, heartbreak and angst, love and sex in times of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliss_Smith/pseuds/Bliss_Smith
Summary: Timeline - on the way back to Denerim after the ambush at Lake Calenhad. Storyline places this directly after Canticle.In which our young lovers learn how to have sex on a moving horse, how to keep loving with the knowledge of potential loss, and how to use a warrior's lessons to deal with a different kind of sword.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: Elements of Love/On the Road to Always [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1111947
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

He’s quiet behind her, silent in a way he hasn’t been since the first few days after Ostagar. She thinks it’s nothing to fret over, but the truth is she can’t help it. Alistair is as naturally chatty as she and that’s been one of her favorite things about the last three days, this impromptu adventure. They aren’t merely free to be as affectionate as they want, they’re free to be everything they want, everything they are – everything they feel they need to hide from their traveling companions. The only one who doesn’t seem to harbor any dislike of them is Leliana; with everyone else they hide things. Everyone disapproves of them in one way or another – they’re either too soft or too hard, too weak or too strong, too chatty, too frivolous, too young to really know what they’re doing.

Which is all likely true, but she hadn’t realized how much their disapproval weighs on her until they got away from it. Here in this little pocket of freedom, she can see clearly. Or as clearly as possible when she's this head over heels in love.

That's what's clouding her judgment right now, she thinks. She's so in love with him she can't help but be scared his silence is a negative thing. He's been quiet since they woke, speaking little as they packed up and bid farewell to their chapel. She would have liked to linger, bask in the morning glow, in the smell of sex that hung in the air like perfume. He didn't seem to be on the same wavelength, so she didn't press the issue, didn’t press her body against him and talk him into a later start.

Now she sits in front of him, desperately in love and worried what his silence means. Is it good or bad? Is he contemplating his love like she is? Is he trying to find a way to back off, pull away from the world-shattering depth of their love for each other?

_Ask him, you goose,_ and that's probably a good idea. She doesn’t give herself time to wonder if direct is the best way; it’s the only way she knows.

“What’s on your mind, my beloved?”

It does come out direct, but it also comes out soft and unsure. Scared, even, like she expects a blow.

He doesn’t respond with words, just tightens his arms around her, pulling her harder against him, like he’d pull her all the way inside him if he could. The tightness of his grip and the number of kisses he plants on her head soothe her, until she feels his tears drip on her shoulder.

She reaches up and behind, wrapping as much of her arms around his head and neck as she can, her grip as firm and implacable as his. She wants to say something, anything to fill the silence, but can’t bring herself to. What she wants isn’t more important than what he needs, and though that isn’t a lesson she minds learning, it isn’t always an easy one for someone as headstrong and direct as she. All she can do is hold tight and wait, trust that he’ll ether find his way to it or ask her for help if he can’t.

Words don’t come, but as they speed across Ferelden, she thinks maybe they aren’t necessary. Aren’t wise either because she maybe knows why he’s silently sobbing against her. She’ll never be as good at reading him as he is her, but she’s coming to learn if she just stops and listens, thinks, she’ll know what’s on his mind.

And what else is there, really? They’re young and in love, the sun is shining, and they are as free as they’re going to get, so what else is there to hurt except the very real chance that their love is as doomed as it is irrevocable?

She tries not to think about it but it’s often a battle - has been since the first morning she woke up pressed against his chest. He was warm and soft-firm, smelling faintly of sweat and more strongly of last night’s sex and as his heart beat under her cheek, she made up her mind she wouldn’t accept waking up any other way.

_This is mine. He is. And I am his._

For no less than forever, the truth of it written in her bones, in the air she pulls into her lungs, but how many decks are stacked against them? Her determination is mighty, but so are the forces they face, and she knows they’ll be ridiculously lucky if they can manage to stop the Blight – both getting out alive will take the luck of the ages.

_But we will_ , the words a never-ending chant in her head, her determination knitting them into a suit of mail to protect them.

She wants to tell him that, tell him to rest his mind, she’ll make sure they get the happily ever after they want so badly, but it isn’t time for words yet. It’s time to pull free and slowly turn, natural grace and a sturdy, trusty horse letting her pivot around to face him. She can’t look at him, knowing to see the anguish will be to stab herself with it and she can’t care for him if she’s bleeding as badly. Instead she keeps her eyes on his chest as she opens his shirt, as she places her legs over his to sit as closely as she can, close enough to put her arms around him and press her cheek against his chest, find the heart that beats for her and let the rhythm settle in, a background beat to accompany her thoughts.

_But we will._

He never finds his words, or maybe never finds the need to speak them, but his body speaks a language she can easily read. She knows the moment his thoughts turn, when fear and heartbreak alchemize into something else. Resolute faith, yes, she can feel that in the way his shoulders pull back and his muscles harden against her, but side by side with his faith is his desire, burning as resolutely as everything else.

His grip doesn’t loosen; it merely shifts as his hands slide down from her shoulders to slip under her butt, lift her up a little. There are no words for this either, but it matters not. They still aren’t necessary or wise. They know what to do without having to speak on it – he holds her up and gets her dress out of the way while she does the same for his pants.

Now the words will come, she thinks, as he lowers her onto his stiff cock – spilled into her mouth, love and anguish, need and desire … but none do. One slight kiss, a soft brush of his lips on hers before tucking her up against him. He wraps his arms around her, holding her tight with one arm while the other deals with Nilly’s reins.

She thinks to start moving, rock her hips and ride him, but his arm tightens before she can. It takes only a moment to realize that he wants her to be still, that he read the impulse in her body before even she was aware her hips were starting to flex. That he can read her so intimately, so flawlessly, is as erotic as the idea of what they’re doing.

Which is nothing less than slow-motion sex in the middle of the road, middle of the day, middle of a country at war with itself and a literal horde of demons.

Nilly’s canter is perfect for this, her motion transferring to him and then up through him to her. Not just slow motion but perfect motion, deep but still somehow soft, slow but intense enough to leave her gasping in a matter of moments.

_I want I want I want_ everything, to look up at him, pull him down for a kiss, buck and flex, scream … and once again he tightens his grip before she can do more than think about any of those things. This time he moves his hand to the back of her head, gently pressing her against his chest. She can feel his delighted laugh more than hear it, can feel the brush of his lips against the top of her head.

She wants, but so does he, and somehow that’s the most erotic thing of all, the way he’s guiding her. _Anything for you,_ and the thought wraps around her as she snuggles in against his chest, to feel his heartbeat strong and sure against her cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

The more she tries to be still, the harder it is; the more she tries to be quiet, the more the sounds work their way out. She moans and gasps against his chest, pressing her mouth against his skin to muffle the noise, still trying to give him the silence he wants. It doesn’t work but he doesn’t seem to mind; she can feel his smile as he kisses the top of her head, can feel the rumble of laughter under her lips.

“Hold on,” he whispers, his arm tightening to hold her in place as he flicks Nilly’s reins.

She’s a good horse, Miss Nilly, a prime example of Ferelden breeding from the best horse master in the country. She’s sure footed and solidly steady, a nimble work horse who can spend twelve hours traveling with no signs of flagging – but under all that she’s a horse that loves to run.

“Go on, girl, show me what you can do,” and she doesn’t need to be human to know she’s being given permission to do what she loves most. She tosses her head and gives a whinny, her own bit of happy laughter as she lets her trot develop into a full out gallop.

Mistral’s gasps turn into breathless screams as she’s bounced harder, as Nilly’s happy gallop transfers the kinetic energy into the bodies on her back.

“Oh Maker,” the words a muffled scream against Alistair’s chest. Her hands dig into his back to hold on, hold herself harder against him, to speak their own language of desire.

She wants to do more but she’s a smart girl, she knows they’re in a delicate situation. The wrong movement at the wrong time could end up hurting everyone, including the horse who’s giving them such an exquisite ride.

But the way he’s being thrust up into her, the way her clitoris is being ground against him, has her over an edge, desperate for more than just genital contact.

“Kiss me, please.” She doesn’t recognize her own voice, the begging need has her sounding like some new Mistral, a woman she’s never met, never even guessed might exist. Everything from the last two days rushes through her - the golden fire, the reverent canticle, the unshakeable, unmistakable truth of their love and devotion – leaving her laid bare. The moment is a perfect encapsulation of them, of the life they’re forging, forcing their way through; rushing headlong to their responsibilities, knowing they can’t turn from them, not even for a moment, yet still determined to love each other the whole way through. They can’t turn their course as Wardens any more than they can turn it as lovers, so what is left but to find the way to do both at once?

_But we will,_ the words a chant in her head, in her heart, stubborn determination refusing to accept any other outcome, to even think any other is possible. She is Mistral Cousland and she gets what she wants. If the world doesn’t give it to her, she finds a way to get it on her own. This will be no different. Can’t be.

“Kiss me,” both begging and demanding because she needs his mouth on hers as much as she needs the air in her lungs.

“Your wish, my love,” and now she thinks his words will come; he’ll spill them into her mouth as his grip tightens. A dim and distant part of her brain sits back in amazement, taking in her love in this moment, this new Alistair who holds her with such assurance and skill as he guides the mount rocking them together. It’s a thought she has more often now, utter amazement that he thinks so little of himself when she can see just how incredibly skilled and versatile he is.

But it’s simply background noise, those thoughts, something to pull out and examine later, after he pulls out of her.

After the blade of their love is pulled from her chest.

She thinks his words will come, but no, it’s hers, spilled into his mouth and surprising only her. He holds tight and lets her talk, lets her declare her love and her bone deep determination that they will make it through this.

It all blurs, the good and the bad mixing together, heartbreak and devotion, love as pure as their carnality, one stab after another as her orgasm builds, as she tastes his tears and understands what her words are costing him. She wants to shut up and can’t manage, stuck on the idea that if she doesn’t keep demanding the Maker keep them together then He somehow won’t. Love and rage, will and fear, screamed into his mouth as she tries to push her hands into his back, wrap her legs around him so tightly she can somehow fuse their bodies together the way their hearts have been.

She finally stops shrieking when she tips over the edge and comes, the breath knocked out of her lungs by the force of her muscle contractions. She can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but twitch and thrum on his cock, feeling like someone shoved a lightening staff inside her.

And then it’s her turn to cry; deep, wracking sobs as her lungs begin working once more. She slumps against him, as lost in her tears as she was in her lust, sobbing against his chest as he reins Nilly in, setting her back to a moderate gait. She can feel his lips on her head as he soothes her, feel his tears falling like rain, but his voice never wavers, nor does the arm holding her.


	3. Chapter 3

She wakes slowly, roughly, pulled from bad sleep by the change in Nilly’s gait and Alistair’s soft whisper.

“Can you hold on, love? I need both hands to guide us through the woods.”

Opening her eyes isn’t any easier; they’re glued shut from crying herself to sleep – although it’s probably closer to say she simply passed out from the emotional overload. She settles herself against him, moving carefully to rub the gunk from her eyes as he leads them off the road.

It’s not yet dusk, but it isn’t far away. That she slept so long both worries and angers her – how upset was she to sleep so long and so deep? And how much time did she lose with him? They could have been laughing or talking, or even enjoying more sex on horseback, and she blew that chance by crying herself to sleep like a little girl who didn’t get the toy she wanted.

_That’s not fair,_ and maybe she’s right, but none of this is fair, is it?

_“Life isn’t fair, missy, even for the spoiled daughters of powerful men.”_

She’s not sure what she hates more – the memory of Nan scolding her or the simple truth of the statement – but she is sure she needs to get her head in a better place or she’s going to wind up sobbing again.

_Just keep your mouth shut this time. Don’t hurt him like you did earlier._

Well that’s certainly no help.

“Let me down? Please?”

He reins Nilly in, watching her closely as she turns enough to dismount. “I’ll wait here.”

She’s shaking her head before he finishes, hoping she can say what she needs without her voice catching and cracking. “No, go on and find the spot. I’ll catch up.”

He wants to argue – she can see it in his face like it’s written in ink – but he doesn’t. He simply watches her for a moment and nods. “Don’t be long. Please.”

“No longer than I need to be. Promise.”

Another nod and he flicks the reins gently, moving away from her without looking back. She’s not sure if she’s grateful for that or not.

She’s fine until she lifts her dress and squats, until the smell of their sex floats up. It’s such a raw, primal smell. Does it smell like that for everyone, or does the taint make it different somehow? She doesn’t know, or even care – all she knows is it’s her favorite smell, and nothing less than a knife in her heart. The idea that she might one day be robbed of it brings back the sadness, the grief and fear that made her sob until she passed out.

_I’d rather die than be the one left behind_ and that’s as surprising as it is true, but that means he’d be the one left, the one who spends the rest of his life waking up alone.

Have her heart ripped out, or his? Save the world or save each other?

_Both. I’ll find a way. I swear it on the heart that beats for him alone._

But will she find him? By the time she’s steady and ready, it’s nightfall and her whirling thoughts leave her lost in the gloam. There’s no moon yet to guide her, nothing to show tracks on the ground. Fear comes back and settles on her like an old wool cloak, heavy and scratchy, weighing her down.

_Don’t make him come find you. Don’t you scare him like that. You’ve caused him enough heartache today. Pull yourself together and remember who you are._

Yes. She is Mistral the Fierce. She is Alistair’s Love. That’s all she needs to know. All she needs to be.

She closes her eyes and listens, finding the sounds to point her in the right direction. She thinks to run, let her feet fly over the ground to find his arms as fast as she can, but she pulls herself in like she’s holding the reins and contents herself with seeing just how long a stride she can coax from short legs.

_Will it ever stop feeling like this when he looks at me?_

No, but it will be years before she remembers the question and gets an answer (a dozen, in fact – when she walks back into their castle after two years away his expression will be exactly the same and she’ll remember this moment, this stab of love so deep it feels like a mortal wound.)

He stops when he sees her, camp and meal prep put aside so he can look at her, walk over to her. He’s inspecting her, she knows that – top to bottom, making sure she’s okay both inside and out, and the force of his love could easily bring back the tears.

But no, she refuses to cry, refuses to do anything but love him in this moment.

“Come relax, my love. I’ve made you a nest, so you can rest while I make dinner.”

Well that surely doesn’t make not crying any easier. “I was planning to take care of you. To repay you for earlier.”

He’s to her now, smiling down as his hand slips into her hair. “You have nothing to repay me for, my love. You never will.”

She’d like to think that’s true, but she’s too honest about her faults to really believe it. In this moment, though, the only thing that matters is the love he’s casting over her, the spell he puts her under.

_Anything for you_ , and this is how she repays him – by giving him exactly what he wants right now. She smiles and steps closer, pressing herself against him. “There’s a long line of people who would warn you about spoiling me.”

“Which would only make me spoil you more.”

“Carry me,” and her tone is as happy as it is imperious.

“Your wish is my command.”

She can’t help but be impressed by his willingness to pamper her – and this from the young woman who was the most indulged person in Highever. A castle of servants and a town willing to spoil her to curry favor with her father can’t hold a candle to this man, this son of a King who spent his life as a cast-off stable boy and unwilling man of the church.

He doesn’t just find her fresh and cool spring water; he holds the mug to let her drink. He cooks the food he knows she loves and hand feeds her as she relaxes on the soft nest he made for her, all the while talking to her, everything from funny jokes to serious matters, lighthearted banter, giving her as many pieces of himself as he can.

When the meal is finished, when he has everything cleaned and packed, he finds a deep pool from the spring and lines it with rocks from the campfire, letting them take the chill off the water while he brushes her hair and strips her down.

“I could get used to this, you know.”

He laughs and nips her ear, happiness radiating from him like the moonshine that spills over the clearing. “I was just thinking the same thing.” He stands and picks her up, cradling her carefully as he moves them to the pool. He lowers her slowly, letting her adjust to the temperature.

But she’s feeling playful, his gentle ministrations taking every bit of stress and worry off her shoulders, leaving her feeling young and free. She tightens her arms around his neck and throws herself backward, catching him off guard enough to pull him down with her.

Life on the coast – and the life of a sailor’s child – made her a flawless swimmer and she uses that skill now, diving as deep as she can. She circles around, trying to come up behind him, but either she’s terrible at water stealth or he just knows her too well. When she comes up expecting to catch him off guard, she finds him waiting for her, smiling wide and looking as impish as she feels. As young, too, and later she’ll want to weep over it, but for now she can only marvel at how they can peel off the serious responsibilities and heavy burdens and simply be young and in love.

He moves before she can, snatching her up to lift her out of the water, bringing her body to his mouth to blow fat raspberries on her stomach, leaving her laughing until she’s as breathless from bliss as she is from love and wonder.

And then it’s on, both of them lighting up, lightening up, becoming what they never truly had the chance to be, what they never will be – two kids, babes in the woods with no thought beyond this moment of delight and joy. They splash and play, mock wrestle, chase and swim away, every bit of sorrow and loss left behind with their clothes on the bank.


	4. Chapter 4

But they aren’t children; they’re young and healthy adults, in love with each other in every way possible. The play is fun, the play is good, but it doesn’t take long before the play becomes something else – something deep and needy.

Now it’s her turn, she thinks – for all he was waiting on her hand and foot he was doing it because he wanted to, not because she did. He was in charge and she was happy and grateful to give him exactly what he wanted, but now it’s her turn to spoil him, to be his dutiful and devoted lover, to lead him out of the water and over to where the towels hang on a branch.

Maybe it’s the moonlight. Maybe the sounds, or the smell of night blooming flowers, but she suspects it’s really the way water droplets are tracking down his chest, the way the moonlight traces a silver path through the not-quite sparse hair on his chest, the way water pools in his navel. She takes the towel before he can start drying her, dabbing lightly down his sides while she leans forwards and lightly licks the water from his chest.

The stump is almost too easy to miss but she catches it out of the corner of her eye, ideas forming as she takes in its perfect height, how the top is worn smooth enough to be a perfect seat. A beam of moonlight highlights it, showing smooth wood surrounded by vines of night blooming flowers. It’s so perfect she wonders if it’s a trap in some way, but she doesn’t take long to worry over it. It’s a perfect throne for her Young Prince and she doesn’t hesitate to lead him to it. She pushes him down gently, not commanding, merely suggesting, but she knows he’ll follow her wherever she leads.

He sits down, expecting her to sit with him, to straddle him and kiss him while she rocks on his cock and whispers how much she loves him. Instead she kisses him and kneels between his feet to rest her head on his thigh.

And waits.

They’ve been dancing around the idea ever since her inadvertent mention of it their first night together. Somehow it gets mentioned and they both light up like a candle at the idea, but here they are still dancing, and she thinks tonight is the night to put it to rest one way or the other.

To find out if it’s something he really wants, because she’s dancing, too, but only to keep up with him. Every time she’s made definite overtures for it he’s gotten hard, or harder, and he makes such happy noises, but it never failed that he’ll pull her up for a kiss or roll her onto her back to plow her like a field.

She doesn’t want to keep trying if he’s not really interested. That’s not healthy for either of them. As much as she wants it, she can’t want it for him or demand he give it to her.

She snuggles down on his thigh and looks up at him, falling in love all over again, like she does every time she can look at him like this - open and needy and determined to ignore the past telling ghost stories in his head.

_Please may I?_ but she’ll not ask. She doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to either, because it’s still as true as it always has been, always will be, that what she wants most is never anything more than what he wants. Her head on his thigh is intimate enough for her.

“Are you sure?”

She wonders why he asks for this act and no other. “Yes. But if you’re not for some reason, any reason, then my opinion on it doesn’t matter.”

“Your beauty would tempt even the Gods to sin, my lady. What chance do I have?”

He holds her still and puts his free hand on his cock, stroking it just enough to send a trickle of come down the shaft. She thinks he’s just going to tease her by holding her still while he jerks off, and she’s not surprised to find she’s okay with that. More than okay. Instead he pushes his cock down to touch her mouth, rub the wet head over her lips until they are as sticky as him.

“That’s what’s been holding me back, what they say about such a thing. About the women who do it and the men it ruins. I don’t ever want you to think I think that about you. That I could ever think anything like that about you.” He keeps rubbing as he talks, glossing her lips and stabbing her with the need to stick out her tongue. “What they said, it doesn’t have to be true for us. None of it does. Love this deep can never be a sin, can it?”

She can’t speak to answer, knowing she’s likely to cry because she loves him so much, loves how damn brave he is. How being brave for her is teaching him to be brave for himself. She shakes her head against his leg and smiles up at him.

He smiles back, the one she loves best, when he’s nothing but open and happy, with himself and the world. “Do you have any idea what to do? I surely don’t, not even overheard conversations.”

She knows it doesn’t matter to him. He’ll not mind if she says yes, but she finds it matters to her, more than she would ever guess. She’s profoundly grateful to say no. “Not really. No experience and little from the books that could pass as instructions.”

“Then we’ll just have to learn together, won’t we?” The way he says it, the way he smiles tells her he’s glad for it, as much as she.


	5. Chapter 5

For the moment she’s content to stay as they are, to keep looking up at him as he rubs his cock on her mouth, learning the way the soft-firm head feels against her lips. Learning the way the new light blooms in his eyes – no longer bright golden suns but the deepest gold of a harvest moon bathing her with a glow of love and need.

_But what will he do if I do this?_ she thinks, as she opens just enough to take the head into her mouth. She doesn’t start sucking or licking; she holds him with her lips, watching the way his eyelids flutter, listening to the sound that rumbles up out of his chest. It would be a scream but he’s too breathless for it to be more than a gasp of deepest pleasure. All she can do is smile and laugh around him, finally start licking as he drips a river onto her tongue.

His hand tightens in her hair, pulling in a way she knows he isn’t aware of. He’s not paying attention to anything except her mouth and the delight in her eyes. His gasps become words – or try to – he’s paying no more attention to what he’s saying than to what his hand is doing.

That suits her fine. His words of love and desire are as raw and pure as the light in his eyes. She presses up into his hand and starts sucking, as gently as she can, both to tease and to learn, watching closely to soak up his reaction.

“Maker’s breath, now I understand why they tried to keep us away from this.”

She laughs at that, pulling her mouth off him just enough to speak against his skin. “I think we can assume the more the Chantry tells us not to do something with each other, the more we need to do that very thing.”

She becomes serious for a moment; now seems as good a time as any to check in. “You’re okay? This is as good for you as it looks from this angle?”

“It is so good I have to wonder if I’m in some fade demon’s closet of dreams.”

She turns her head and bites his thigh, one quick, sharp nip, then laughs at his quiet _ow_. “Now you know you aren’t dreaming.”

“Then we can get back to learning. Kneel up here and kiss me, love. Let’s start at the top.”

That sounds like a fine idea. She kneels up and puts her arms around his neck, melting against him as he puts his arm around her back and bends over her. He holds her tight to him, cradling her in that soft-hard way that marks everything they do. Soft lips and tongues licking and kissing while hard, greedy fingers dig into each other’s skin.

He keeps his hands on her as she pulls back and starts kissing down his jaw and neck. He’s always let her put her mouth on him but never much, or for long, and often only when he’s holding her tight against him and banging her senseless. Now she has a chance to do what he does with her, kiss and lick her way down his body, learn what he feels like under her mouth instead of just her hands.

She uses those, too. She loves his body as much as she loves his heart, loves the solid muscles under smooth skin, the wiry soft hair on his chest. She lets her hands roam, lets her fingers stroke and tickle as she licks and nips his chest. A soft bite to a nipple makes him arch and gasp, another breathless scream that makes her laugh in delight. She could happily spend all night just on his chest, but the way he’s pressing down on her and flexing his hips tells her he’s getting impatient.

So is she, but she still takes the time to poke her tongue in his navel, give it little licks and laugh against his soft stomach at the way he laughs and moans, at the feel of his belly fur tickling her lips.

The laughter trails off as her mouth trails down, as she finds her goal. She wants to suck him into her mouth, one deep slurp just to have him there, but she makes herself wait. Better first to kiss and lick his shaft, swirl her tongue like she’s eating candy, let her fingers stroke and rub. She wants to learn every inch, become intimately acquainted and let her instinct take over to show her what to do to please him.

She kneels all the way down, settling in to get serious. Her hands know what to do, scratch her fingers into his soft thicket of hair, smooth their way down to cup his balls, to stroke and cradle, tickle and tug. She doesn’t know where to start but doesn’t that seem like a good place? Press her nose against the base of his cock so she can press her lips on his balls, plant a hot kiss that turns into a tongue swipe, one that travels up and keeps going, a long, flat lick up his shaft, learning what silk and stone feels like under her tongue.

He’s making the smallest sound, something that might be keening if he grieved. The look on his face is pure rapture, but is it from the feel of her tongue or the love in her eyes? Or just the idea of what they’re doing?

She pauses under the head, pulling back to let the tip of her tongue travel under the heavy ridge, to gather the stream dripping at her touch. “I love you,” each word overly enunciated so he can feel them on his skin and when he gasps in pain, she smiles and bends her head down to slip his cock into her mouth.

The feel of him in her mouth is everything she could want and more, silky soft and salty slick, rock hard and softly throbbing, but the way he’s looking at her is nothing less than holy fire, burning her to ash at his feet.

Is it blasphemy or pure holiness, the way she feels when she looks up at him? The way they look at each other?

His hands are in her hair, squeezing and pulling, lighting her up as much as his breathless words, telling her how beautiful she is. He’ll give her the world just for the way she’s looking at him.

They’ve stumbled onto something new, she thinks, yet another way to connect and cast their spells. Why this is so different from regular sex she’s not sure, but the deeper she works him into her mouth the more she knows it’s true.


	6. Chapter 6

The trouble comes - as it always does for her - when she gets impatient and thinks to tackle a problem head on. Or in this case, swallow the length of him with no idea how to manage. For the first time she’s glad of her wide mouth; the one part of her face she hated most is now an asset as she works it down his thick cock, but width isn’t the only thing she needs to figure – something she realizes when she gets impatient and pushes her mouth down, trying to get her lips to the base. As soon as his thick head hits the back of her throat, she starts gagging, so hard and fast she doesn’t think she’ll be able to pull her head back in time.

_Oh, Maker, you impatient fool, now you’re going to puke on him_ and for a hot second she thinks that’s nothing but truth.

She gets him out of her mouth quick enough and drops her head back, gasping for air as she finds a way to force her throat muscles to be still.

_Breathe in, be still,_ and that’s advice she’s grateful to take, as it lets her avoid looking at him. Her eyes are streaming tears from gagging and her cheeks are flaming hot from utter embarrassment.

But this is what learning together means, right? If she can’t look him in the eyes, she has no business doing this.

He’s watching her closely, carefully – not in derision, merely with simple concern. It would seem he didn’t expect it any more than she did.

_So how are you going to handle this you silly goose?_

With humor, of course. “Well the books never mentioned that.”

He grins at the joke and likely at the fact that she’s making one. “Make a fist with your right hand. Tuck your thumb in and squeeze it with your fingers.”

She does that without question, holding her hand up for him to check that she’s doing it right. “And this will …?”

“This will keep you from gagging and throwing up. Or should.”

She doesn’t ask, just raises her eyebrows and waits.

“It’s a Templar trick; they teach it before you take part in a harrowing. Can’t have the line of defense throwing up on the demons.”

She can’t help but feel skeptical – it’s so simple how can it work? – but the idea of using a Chantry approved tactic to do one of the things they disapprove of makes her grin wide.

“Well let’s hope it works for this or we’ll have to get washed up again.”

She starts to get back in place, but he stops her before she can. He puts his hand in her hair, such an ordinary gesture now, but this time his touch is different. Harder, she thinks, or maybe just firmer. No hesitation in it as he cups her head and tilts her face up to him.

There’s a moment of flashback to thoughts from earlier, how he is so much more than he thinks he is - but also like earlier, it can’t last long against the heat from his eyes.

“If we do, we do. I’ll never think any less of you for something like that, my love.”

She wants to answer, tell him how much that means to her, but she can’t find the right words. He knows it anyway – and aren’t there better things to do with her mouth now?

She smiles up at him as she pulls free, settling back between his legs. She thinks to pick up where she left off, but something washes over her this time, a reverence she didn’t expect. It reminds her of yesterday, the way the air felt in their cabin-chapel, but this is somehow different.

What is it about this act? Why is it so different from everything else they’ve done together?

Maybe it’s the simple positioning, so much like kneeling at an altar. Maybe it’s simply more intimate – taking a part of him into her mouth, like she would nourishment.

Whatever the case, she finds herself kneeling with her head bowed, lips pressed to the base of his cock for a moment.

But only for a moment, because instinct is coming awake now and lighting a trail of fire along her nerves. She drags her lips up, slow and hard, letting her tongue poke out to taste the salty tang of his skin.

She makes herself go slow, resisting the impulse to drop her mouth down hard and fast. Slow and smooth like he always enters her, letting her feel each inch of his hard cock, letting each inch of her tight, wet heat envelop him.

A thought chases its way across her mind, how similar and still different this is from lowering herself on to him. Same action, different orifice. Different nerve endings, for her at least.

But not for him. As similar as it is, she can tell it’s also very different for him. More pleasurable, or merely more of that difference?

Why this act and no other? She still doesn’t have an answer, but she knows it’s true. Whatever the difference, it is as profound for her as it is for him.

She sucks slowly, softly, swirling her tongue, trying to light up every nerve ending. Trying to relax as well, to not tense up at the thought of gagging again. She fixes her hand like he taught her and works on breathing steadily, grateful that her nose didn’t get stuffy when her eyes started watering.

Slowly, so slowly, taking in each moment – the feel of him thick and throbbing in her mouth, his hands in her hair pulling softly, his words spilling over her like a benediction.

And then she’s there, his thick head at the back of her mouth and there is no gagging. She’s tricked her body into ignoring its line of defense. One problem down.

But still one more to go, as she understands that her mouth may be wide enough to hold him, but her throat isn’t. She doesn’t gag but she can’t go any further.

_Give it up. Take what you can get._

That might be enough for another woman but not for her, not for Mistral the Strong and Determined. She’s spent years training her body to do what it wasn’t built for, to ignore her short, slight frame and figure out how to make it a warrior’s build. How to use it to knock foes twice her size on their backs, soft, girlish arms hiding the strength that pushes her sword through their chests like a knife through butter.

Deep breath, concentrate. The throat is just a muscle, one she can train like any other. Deep breath, concentrate, find the muscle causing the problem and tell it to relax, force it to, force it to open as she slowly, steadfastly pushes her mouth down on him, right hand clenched tight as she breathes slow and steady through her nose, as she opens her ears to let his words help her along, the idea of how much pleasure she’s giving him breaking the last barrier.

His words are half litany, half mindless syllables, praise and moans, prayers and grunts as she finally gets her prize, the feel of his hard cock completely filling her throat. She’s as savagely proud as she was the first time she knocked a big man down, triumphant proof that she can get whatever she wants, that her determination nullifies anything that tries to keep her from a goal.

Of course, she can’t breathe like this, there’s no space in her throat for even air to slip through, but still she stays like she is, fighting off the instinct to get away from what could kill her.

_What a way to die_ , she thinks, not surprised by the thought, by the knowledge that she would give him even that if he wanted. _Anything for you. Take what you want, even my life._


	7. Chapter 7

It’s his hands in her hair that turn her thoughts, that drive out the contemplation of devotion and replace it with implacable desire. Not mindless, she’s very much aware of everything, herself and him, the way his hands tighten, the way his fingers press against her scalp.

A flash of thought, memory of the way his hands gripped her hips, the way he held her like a ball, like a toy, as he lifted and dropped her onto his cock, sunshine bathing them in a golden moment of no return.

This is the counterpart, white gold moonlight filling the space, bathing them in light. The idea of him doing the same to her throat as he did to her cunt makes her moan deep, the vibration of her throat leaving him grasping and growling, once more the feral young man shedding his skin, his layers, to open himself to her.

But she can’t stay like this, has to pull back enough to breathe, gasp in air as she looks up at him, this man forcing himself away from the needy, unloved boy he was to be the man worthy of claiming such a proudly noble, determined woman as she.

_Anything for you, my King._

She knows he will never be less than that for her. He is her rightful King, in every manner of the word, and when he grips her head tighter and pushes her mouth back down on him, she knows there is nothing else she’d rather be than his.

He does what she hoped, turns her head into a toy, a ball for him to bounce on his lap, an open, tightly willing hole to fuck, to thrust himself into. Balls deep and grinding, pulling her back just enough to let her suck in desperate air before pushing her down and shoving himself up, perfection motion, flawless rhythm.

Except she can’t look at him like this, the angle is all wrong, and she needs to see him, needs to watch him. When he pulls her off again, she tosses her head back, pulls away completely to look up at him, her King on his throne, and she might be the Queen at his feet but she is still Mistral the Fierce, who doesn’t hesitate to demand what she wants – even from a King.

“Stand up. I want to watch you. Look at you.”

His laugh is pure delight, pure strength as he stands. She has to kneel up, compensate for the height change, but that’s okay – it turns out to be a perfect match, from knees to the top of her head she’s as long as his legs, the right height for him to grasp her by the head and push his cock down her throat.

_More, harder, faster,_ her constant litany any time he plows his hard cock into her, but this time she can’t talk, can only moan and hum, but she knows how to talk with her hands, how to reach up and grab his ass, dig her fingers in to press him harder against her mouth.

He reads her like a book written in a language only he speaks, smiling down at her, laughing and moaning as he pulls and thrusts, pushes and presses, the light in his eyes brighter than the moonlight that bathes them.

It doesn’t take long. She doesn’t know if it’s luck or merely his being overly excited by this new way to consecrate their love. She can’t always read his thoughts, but she can read his body, can tell he’s close by the pattern of his breath, the way his voice drops deeper, becomes a hot flame to match the burn of his harvest moon eyes, the way his hard muscles tighten and turn to stone under her hands, the way his cock swells and throbs faster.

Her eyes are watering and her chest is burning with a need for air, but she can’t stop now. She marshals her strength, the fierce determination that will always be her hallmark, to be still, let him bounce her, use her, let him thrust faster and harder as his words turn to gasps, feral noises, primeval sounds that bind her to him as much as anything else. _Yes please_ and she doesn’t need to say it, he reads it in her eyes as she stares up, as he whisperscreams her name and gives one last thrust, burying himself in her throat as he pulses, as he shoots thick come down her throat, crying his love to the moonlight that paints them, King and Queen forever joined by something deeper than love.

He sits back down on the stumps – falls, almost, the force of his orgasm draining him. She wants to say something, wants to look at him, watch him watch her, but she’s just as spent. She does her own collapsing, dropping back into full kneel at his feet, her body falling between his thighs as she rests her head against his hot skin, eyes closed to relax, to control her frantic need for air.

It’s his hand in her hair that brings her back, always that gentle touch that’s as much claim as it is surrender. She tilts her head just enough to look up at him, trying her best to hold back the tears. She doesn’t know if it’s simple reaction or more of the heartbreak from earlier, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to cry for any reason. She only wants to sit like this, spend the rest of her life watching him watch her, trying to figure out who is more in love in this moment.

“Are you okay?” His words are soft, hesitant like he’s afraid of the answer, that he expects he hurt her somehow.

“I’m golden,” she replies, or tries to, the words coming out scratchy and rough as her throat tries to remember its original purpose. Swallowing is even tricky, telling her she might have overdone it this first time. Which certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’s found herself in such a situation. The morning after her first successful fight and knockdown, she could hardly get out of bed, finally understanding there is a cost to her relentlessness.

But it doesn’t stop her from smiling up at him, grinning up, triumphant in her pain, in the knowledge that she gave him such a priceless moment.

“Anything for you, my love,” and it takes her a moment to realize it’s his words this time and not just the sound of the thought branded on her heart. “Anything. Everything. Until the very end of time.”

The tears come finally, as inevitable as everything else, but she doesn’t stop smiling up at him. _We will, we will,_ and in this moment, she knows it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: Peter Gabriel - In Your Eyes
> 
> *The fist trick actually works, but claiming it to be a Templar's trick is merely convenient storytelling.


End file.
